


The Language of Apology

by patternofdefiance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Five Stages of Grieving, Reunion, friendship becoming more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:05:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patternofdefiance/pseuds/patternofdefiance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anger, John knew, was the second stage. He’d barely felt the isolation, barely been afforded the luxury of denial that comprised the first stage. There had been no denying what he saw that day.</p><p>But anger had been quick to surge in and fill the void, and John was clinging to it, making up for being denied the dream of Sherlock-isn’t-dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Before, Sherlock had an abundance of words, in many languages, in many voices – German, French, Italian, Russian, Portuguese… He could coax, cajole, conjure a response – could retrieve a confession or a revelation with tears or smiles or the magic mean of both.

John was never so gifted, but his trek across three continents, his poster child experience of meeting strange, exotic people before shooting at them and getting shot at by them – and later still, patching them up and being patched up by them – well. John has learned to listen, how to hear what can’t be spoken in a common dialect.

When Sherlock jumped – and it was ‘jumped’ – everyone tried to call it the accident or the fall, but it wasn’t _it wasn’t_ he was there and he’d _seen_ … When Sherlock jumped, everyone told John how sorry they were.

Sally swallowed ‘freak’ and apologized to John. If John had been any less of an Englishman, he would have clocked her. Her and Kitty both – that damned reporter tried to interview him and it was all he could do to slam the door in her face and put a barrier between her and his grieving fury.

No, John saved his fists for Anderson, who still wore a sneer, and Lestrade, who took the first punch with such an air of pained gratitude that John couldn’t hit him twice.

And Mycroft.

The bastard never saw it coming – simply popped ‘round for a visit – to ‘check up’ on John, he later explained, icing his swollen jaw while John ran his ruined knuckles under the cold tap.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, and John thought he heard him choking on the words, and felt an urge to choke him properly.

Anger, John knew, was the second stage. He’d barely felt the isolation, barely been afforded the luxury of denial that comprised the first stage. There had been no denying what he saw that day.

But anger had been quick to surge in and fill the void, and John was clinging to it, making up for being denied the dream of _Sherlock isn’t dead_.

And god it had felt good to hit Mycroft, to _surprise_ him, and at first he’d thought it a ruse, that Mycroft had let himself get hit – but John has seen a thousand surprised faces, a thousand faces that never saw the bullet coming.

Make that a thousand plus one.


	2. Chapter 2

“I’m so sorry, love,” Mrs. Hudson said, upset and flustered and working through her own stages.

John had no need for apologies, though, full and warm with anger as he was.

It couldn’t last, this feeling of fire and purpose and vigor and _retribution_.

It didn’t last.

Once everyone had apologized, their faces raw with it, their eyes red with it, the backs turned with it – once everyone had suffered their lashes, John turned on Sherlock.

But it’s no good shouting at someone who can’t shout back, so he turned on himself.

But it’s no good shouting at someone who won’t shout back.

The headstone was silent, too, when he went to bargain with it. _Please, just for me._

Then came the fourth stage. It was tempered by needing to pack. It was tempered by needing to move. It was tempered by a thousand little distractions, and John felt for a moment, how Sherlock must have felt, combatting boredom every day, and he was losing this battle against something worse than boredom, the same way Sherlock must have lost some inner struggle – and there it was.

John had been wondering which thought would crack him, and there it was.

The tears, when they came, were silent and hot and took the steel from his legs and his spine and his shoulders and left behind aching, hollow, bird-like bones. The weight of that thought and the gravity of _remaining behind_ combined and pushed him to a crouch, pulled him to a slump, and suddenly he was remembering how relief had once brought him to this exact pose – and there was another.

A dark, chlorine-drenched space in his memory opened and swallowed him, and –

John dried his tears.

John dried his tears.

John dried his tears, and after a while, they dried themselves. After a while, they no longer came.

Days and faces and weeks and awkward visits and months and strained phone calls passed, and John found he no longer had the stomach for ‘sorry.’

People insisted on serving it to him, an aperitif to conversation, a starter, a snifter of condolences. The second course was _understanding_ , but John couldn’t even manage the first. So he abstained, became ascetic in his contact.

Work was a welcome dalliance, pulled him away from his own misery and into the comforting proximity of others’.

He met a woman called Mary, and engaged in a protracted and convoluted affair with her, and _affair_ it must have been, because _look at the tan line on her ring finger_ , a baritone whisper cautioned him,and John smiled and accepted her number and made it home before he let himself remember the mouth and throat and mind that could utter a deduction so blithely.

John was lonely, and he took what he could get, and he cared for Mary, because the other choice was caring for himself, and he couldn’t even meet his eyes in the mirror most days.

And Mary was easy to love – and she’d have to be, with the string of men she seemed to be collecting – and she was a loving person – and what more proof was necessary than that?

And Mary was broken, too, propping her fractured self-esteem up with as many crutches as she could lay her hands on, and John was good at fixing people, and he thought, maybe, if Mary let him, he could patch her up, and she could distract him and it would be _perfect_.

John came to his senses before he pulled the ring from his pocket.

He came to his senses in the same way that a drowning man breaches the surface of a tempest ocean.

He gasped in great lungfuls of realization, and then regurgitated ‘sorry’ right there at the fancy restaurant, stood stiffly and left, wiping the apology from his lips, his face, his brow.

He broke it off and felt unfettered and this wasn’t about Mary and it wasn’t about Sherlock, no, it was about _him_.

John Watson.

And it was past time John started thinking of himself, of fixing himself, patching up what the war and Sherlock and Mary had done, what he had let them do to him.

John took back his body first, and it was a ground war, fought in tides and landslides and bitter uphill struggles. He had neglected his transport. He owed himself better, and he made good on that debt.

Then John took back his London. He called up Lestrade, emailed Molly, andeven visited Mrs. Hudson in 221B. It was almost too much, but John chalked it up to basic training and pushed through. It had to end sometime.

They were so cautious, those first interactions, those first steps, those first stumbling words into a void he’d nurtured so long. It was worth it though – Lestrade was a first rate pub comrade, and Molly was good for tea and sympathy when he felt like indulging. Mrs. Hudson was good for scones and gossip and an awkward pat on the hand or shoulder. After all this time – was it two years already? – she still seemed to think he and Sherlock had been…well, _more_ than just John and Sherlock.

And that was…bothersome? Frustrating? And yet… John kept going back and visiting, because although it came in a flavor he hadn’t particularly looked for, Mrs. H’s nostalgia painted a brighter, happier time, and that was something John could drink in and drink in and never drown.

And John finally found a fondness in himself again, and it bathed the past in a softer light, and it painted the future in hope. It painted it in _spring_. And Sherlock – it cast a glow about his memories of the mad detective.

John – as beset by sentimentality as Sherlock had always despaired – was hardly a romantic. Sherlock would hardly have tolerated him if he had been anything other than the realist that he was, but it was difficult to give off an air of pragmatism concerning emotions when examined side by side with Sherlock Holmes.

Still, John’s new peace allowed him to revisit his days with his late best friend, view his memories through a new lens. He didn’t excuse Sherlock’s rude behavior – not that he ever had, mind you – and he didn’t try to explain away the harshness the man had been capable of.

But for the first time since his anger and his loneliness, John let himself remember the unlooked-for closeness between them, the unexpected laughter and even rarer kindnesses (“I am never kind, John,” may have been the only lie Sherlock ever tried to fob off on him) and the heart wrenching regret in that final phone call.

He remembered a handful of touches, little brushes of fingertips, and wondered.

And he let himself wonder.

And it was alright.

It was progress, of a sort.


	3. Chapter 3

It was early March, and winter was wearing down its final set of teeth, combing London’s streets with achingly cold, wet winds, and John got a text from Mrs. Hudson asking if he’d like to come ‘round for tea, and he accepted, because the surgery had been shite that day, and he could do with a dose of happiness-past.

He let himself in when Mrs. H didn’t answer the door, surprised that he still had the key.

Mrs. Hudson’s flat was empty and cool in the way only an unoccupied space can be. In fact, checking the thermostat and her calendar, John quickly realized she couldn’t possibly have asked him over for tea, seeing as she was off visiting her sister in Sussex.

John’s blood chilled.

Mrs. Hudson had texted him.

John didn’t have his gun.

John never carried his gun anymore, and Mrs. Hudson never texted him.

Scuffles above focused John’s entire being on the floor above. He snatched up the largest, sharpest knife from the magnetic strip above the stove, and crept into the hallway. He cursed himself for not noticing earlier – large, men’s wet footprints, smudged damply into the wood of the stair, a dark and ominous ascending pattern.

John reversed his grip on the knife to hide its length and sharpness along his own forearm and proceeded calmly up the stairs while his heart beat loud and steady in his chest. Adrenaline calmed his fingers, made his eyesight brighter and sharper than usual.

When he reached the landing, the flat’s door hung ajar. No forced entry – the lock must have been picked.

John slipped inside, checking his corners and his lines of sight, then pressed against the wall and sidled along. He cleared the floor, then went back and checked the wetness of the footsteps. Someone else had wandered through the empty, dusty space, and then, with almost dry feet, had started in the direction of the stairs to John’s old room.

Those fainter steps had faded already, evaporating even in the cold.

John crept up the stairs, a thousand thoughts roiling behind his focus on stealth, thoughts like _Call the police, you idiot!_ and _Can’t be burglars, because there’s nothing to steal up here_ , and _Thank god Mrs. Hudson is out of town…_

Another part of him kept repeating, _It can’t be Mycroft and it can’t be Moriarty_ , in an effort to calm his heart. Mycroft hadn’t spoken to him in years, not since he’d redecorated his face for him, and Moriarty was _dead_.

Besides, if that bag of crazy had wanted to get John, he’d have had him by now, which was a strangely comforting thought – and _that_ was unsettling in and of itself.

John shook his head and paused when he saw his door was open just an inch, exposing the bare room inside. With a final steadying breath, John pushed the door open and faced the empty room.

He heard the soft hitch of breath before his eyes adjusted all the way.

“ _John.”_

John’s heart juddered to a halt. “No.”

“John,” the baritone voice insisted. It was hoarse and ragged and tired like a black hole.

John stood frozen in the doorway, his tongue numb and thick in his mouth, his throat tight with the unspoken name. “You can’t –” he began, but then he stopped himself.

A shadow unfolded from where it crouched in the darkest corner, where John’s bed had once stood, and that shadow moved to stand before John, tall and pale and impossibly _alive_ –

“Sherlock.”

“I –”

“Don’t.” John leaned back against the wall, not quite sure of the floor or the ceiling or the walls for that matter.

Sherlock was swaying with each breath, eyes locked on John’s face. “John, I need –”

“What do you need with me?” John asked quietly. Something nervous and frenetic was bubbling up inside him, and it felt like knuckles cracking, tasted like a snarl, like something vicious.

Sherlock clenched his hands and closed his eyes, and John noticed the tremble in his limbs. “I need to apologize to you.” His eyes found John’s again. “Please.”

And of course, apologizing was never one of Sherlock’s languages, one of his tongues, and John – well, he used to have an ear for it, but that was before everyone buried him alive in pity and remorse and ‘sorry’ and misplaced _understanding_ , because they were all too busy apologizing for the wrong thing.

They had been so busy apologizing for believing in Sherlock, for letting him dupe John, for not rescuing him from the sociopath, for not rescuing him from his own dependency on the man with no heart, that they hadn’t had time to apologize for turning on Sherlock. For disbelieving, disowning, discrediting Sherlock.

And John had always believed – he’d healed and moved on and completed his stages – but he never had gotten over his trust of Sherlock Holmes.

Until now.

Being alive shattered the illusion of trust John had allowed himself, and no apology was going to fix that.

Besides, Sherlock didn’t have the mouth for ‘sorry.’ He didn’t have the mind for penance, or the heart for guilt.

“Save it for someone who wants it,” John said harshly, and his breath was coming in great gusts now.

Sherlock took a step back as if struck. He swayed again, knees locked where he stood. “I – didn’t anticipate –”

“No, you wouldn’t, would you? Do tell me what you expected, _detective_. I – I –” John sank to the floor. “I trusted you,” he said, his voice hoarse and louder than the small space needed. He gasped and gulped at air, trying to swallow some sanity into his lungs.

It wasn’t working.

“I can’t – I can’t _believe –_ two _years_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock was in front of him suddenly, kneeling, his face close and concerned, a bizarre collage of shadows mapping missed meals and sleepless weeks. “John, _breathe_.”

He made the mistake of touching John’s shoulder, and John’s shoulder shook him off in a shudder, his hands coming up to cage his face and shield his eyes from _Sherlock alive_.

After a minutes of a racing pulse, beating high in his temples, like a bird thrashing against an attic window, John felt his lungs sync up with his cardiovascular demands again. As the rushing thunder in his ears subsided, he could finally hear what Sherlock was saying, repeating over and over, like a mantra:

“—lieve me, I am sorry, John – please. Believe me –” Sherlock glanced up from where he crouched and saw John watching him. “John?” he began, and John sighed shakily and nodded, and Sherlock sank into a sloppy seat from his strained crouch, crowding John’s space, which wasn’t helping John’s nerves just then –

“Just say it Sherlock. Just say it.” Say it and disappear again. John didn’t say that, but he knew Sherlock heard it, read it in the thousand tells on his face.

“My – John, I…I had no idea it would affect you like this. I am so sorry.”

John snorted, halfway between a scoff and a sneer, and he hated the feeling of that on his face, and he hated that Sherlock had put it there, and he hated the way it seemed to stun Sherlock into silence. “Yeah, I get it. _Sentiment_.” John hoisted himself to his feet, batting away Sherlock’s hand, tried to put some distance between them. His leg was singing with pain, something that hardly ever happened anymore, and wasn’t that the icing on the cake? “I’ll just be going, then – I’ll go and have my emotions elsewhere –”

Sherlock barked out a laugh – it sounded incredulous. “John Watson, as ever you fail to _observe_!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I meant to be seeing something right now?”

“You hear but do not _listen._ ” Sherlock was on his feet now, swaying, but vibrating with – what? Anger? Indignation? _How dare he._

“And what’s that?” John spat, already out the door, already moving down the stairs, his legs growing stiff with anger, his fists balling of their own volition.

Sherlock followed him, none of his usual poise or grace to catch him as he stumbled down the stairs behind John’ surer feet. “Really, John? Two years, and the first thing you’re going to do is make me repeat myself?” He sounded hurt, and that rankled John more than he would have thought possible. He whirled around, and Sherlock had to scramble to keep from crashing into him.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” John spat, “if I’ve _inconvenienced_ you in any way.”

Sherlock closed his open mouth, spots of colour forming high on his cheekbones. “Fine!” he snapped. He turned and ran a hand through his rats’ nest of curls.

“Say it, then,” John pushed, not even bothering to hide the anger and hurt in his voice. “Explain why you left –”

“I had no idea it would affect you like this,” Sherlock muttered at last, then repeated more loudly, “I had no idea it would affect _you_ like this. I had no idea you would be so _affected –_ ”

“Wait, go back –”

“Honestly, John, I don’t know how else to put it to get it through that thick skull of yours that I didn’t – it was never my intent – I had no idea –”

“I get it: you had no idea. I get it.” John pushed his palms against his eyes and leaned against the wall behind him. His shoulder shook as he laughed bitterly. “Never did get the hang of thinking about others first, did y–” He stopped and replayed Sherlock’s tirade again in his mind’s ear, even as Sherlock stiffened and pulled back at his words. “Wait,” he said. “Wait. What did you mean – the way you said it –”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said coldly, trying to stand straight and still, to recapture some of his old poise. “I’m sorry to have _inconvenienced_ you tonight. It won’t happen again.” He turned to go, and got as far as the downstairs landing. A muffled yelp escaped his lips as John caught his arm and swung him against the wall, caging him there with his arms.

“Who _did_ you think would be _so affected_ , Sherlock?”

Sherlock stared John down, then broke the gaze by looking down and away. “I didn’t –” Sherlock stopped, seeming to catch John’s impatience with those words.

After a long moment, Sherlock sighed. “I expected it of myself,” he said quietly, and the fatigue was back inside his skin, John could feel it as the fight drained from the arm he was crushing to the wall. “I had not expected for it to be – _reciprocated_.” He sighed and sunk back into the wall, letting his head tilt back. He huffed out a laugh. “Mycroft warned me – well he tried to warn me about this.”

“You mean you – oh. Oh.” John let go of Sherlock, and Sherlock slumped to the floor. John put his back to the wall and slid down beside Sherlock. Sherlock glanced at him in surprise, but refrained from commenting.

John heaved a sigh and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Why did you lie to me for two years, Sherlock?”

Sherlock seemed to hesitate, but John kept staring, and perhaps he hadn’t spoken to anyone in a long time. Perhaps no one had been willing to hear – or _listen_. Perhaps no one had looked at him at all, except for scorn and hate or distrust, and didn’t that sound distantly familiar?

“Please,” John urged, and Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded, and suddenly he was speaking, slowly at first, then faster and faster, explaining and illuminating. About Moriarty’s fairytale, about the three bullets. About Sherlock’s choice, about _the fall._

Sherlock wound to a close, seemed to run out of words, and John could see his eyelids flutter against the weight of two years away, the weight of coming back.

Sherlock mumbled incoherently for a moment when John hoisted him up and started guiding him to the door.

“Come on,” John coaxed him out of 221B and onto the sidewalk. “Why you didn’t go to Mycroft and get some help – some sleep at least,” he murmured, but his heart wasn’t in it. He wasn’t sure where it was, anymore.

“Couldn’t,” Sherlock managed. “Needed to see you.”

“You – well, you’re welcome to come home with me,” he finished, feeling lame and exhausted. He flagged down a cab.

“John,” Sherlock sounded a little panicked as John bundled him into a cab, but then settled down when John climbed in after him.

“It’s alright,” John shushed him.

“John, I’m sorry.” Sherlock’s eyes were closing, but his hand reached out for John, and John found he couldn’t deny him. He found he didn’t want to.

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” he said, feeling the warmth of those long fingers twining into his. “It’s all fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, this might end up being the prequel tid-bit to the longer fic I'm working on. Thoughts?


End file.
